


Seal of the Realm

by Enchantable



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Political Alliances, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:52:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchantable/pseuds/Enchantable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or once upon a time there was a war between the Hansen and Becket families and after years of fighting, thanks to Herc and Yancy’s there is a possibility of peace… as soon as Chuck will stop screaming and throwing things at his to-be-husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> In which the Princes have their first meeting.

The battle rages around them.

He shouts and ducks underneath someone's swing, thrusting his blade forward and into the joint of their armor. It's impossible to hear the wet sound over the din of the battle but he knows the feeling in his hand. The man's dead by the time his back hits the mud of the battlefield. He barely spares him a thought before he turns and engages his next target. 

If there's a part of being in a battle that he hates it's how faceless everyone becomes. 

He'll never know the names of most of the men he kills. For all that he knows his own blade, it's impossible to tell who falls by it's edge and who falls by someone else's. They're all faceless, nameless bodies in the mud. He hates that. Truly, he hates that most of all. Going to war takes guts, it takes the kind of guts that not a lot of people have. 

The facelessness does have it's advantages though. 

His armor has a mark on it that distinguishes him to one other person on the battlefield. To everyone else he's just another faceless solider laying his life down on the line. The armor he's wearing today is still dented from the blow that took the solider's life yesterday. The day after this one he'll wear a different suit in case someone figures out who he is on the battlefield today. He finds these precautions ridiculous but the King has ordered them and he nothing if not loyal. 

Even if he kind of hates the king sometimes. 

He hates him most of the time actually. King Hercules is beloved by the people but he's still fighting a losing war and his mother, Queen Angela is still buried ten feet under because Herc was too weak to save her. Because at the end of the day having his precious heir was more important than having his beloved wife by his side. He really, really hates him for that. He knows the chances of him getting married for love are nonexistent and Herc was lucky enough to do that and he still managed to mess it up. 

He decapitates two people in rapid succession and turns to the third, but when he strikes out his blow is blocked easily. 

In his mind there are two people in battle, those who die easily and those who don't. The man in front of him seems to be the first of the day who will fit into the other category. He shifts his stance and his eyes narrow when the man does the same. He moves first and he blocks his strike. Their blades clash against each other as they engage and disengage in the chaos of the field. They meet again and again, neither yielding any quarter as they strike each other. 

He keeps his eyes out for any chance this is a distraction, that the man has figured out who he is. But when a man lunges at him from his side the other pauses to let him kill him and he finds himself doing the same. They fight across the mudded battlefield until they're close to the boulders that edge the scrap of land they're fighting over. His opponent moves seamlessly, as if he knows every pebble under their feet. But what he lacks in knowledge of the terrain he makes up in fighting skill. His arms are screaming and he knows he needs to finish this. 

He strikes out harder and the other man accepts the change in tempo. It infuriates him how well matched they are. He can hear the battle raging all around them and he just wants to kill this man and have it done with. He grits his teeth and slams his blade up and around, whacking the man on the side with the flat of his blade. The other man dives forward and locks their blades together. Before they can further the show of strength he slams his foot into the other man's knee and drops him to the ground. 

It's a dirty move but honor has no place in war. 

With a yell he drives his blade through the joint in the man's armor. The bastard matches his yell with one of his own, though it breaks off in a howl of agony as he forces the blade nearly to the hilt through his body. He holds it there for a moment, feeling the sweet thrill of triumph racing through his veins. These are the deaths he likes best of all. The ones that are hard fought for and hard won. The blade is so deep it's actually caught and when the man drops to his knees he actually has to angle it right to rip it free of him. He screams again and he lets his own cry echo it as the man falls back against the stones. 

The man's sword is in the pebbles, his hands unable to grasp it. He can't help the grin he wears as the victory thrums through his veins. He knows he should deal the death blow but he finds he can't. It's the greatest fight he's had in days and despite what he knows he should do he wants to see this man's face when he dies. He wants to know him, if only for a moment. He slices underneath the man's chin, cutting through the straps of his helmet and leaving a shallow cut. With the tip of the sword he pushes back the helmet.

Instantly he wishes he hadn't. 

Prince Raleigh is splayed out in front of him. He's already pale and getting paler as his blood pours out of his body. His first thought--which he will deny to his dying breath--is that Raleigh's eyes are a shocking shade of blue. They're only made more so by the paleness of his skin and the sweat that darkens his blonde hair, plastering it to his forehead. He's gasping unsteadily, his eyes already glazing over but when he looks up and meets his eyes it's with defiance and pride as he gasps unsteadily. 

"Well?" he pants out, "go on," he gasps, keeping their eyes locked together. 

He tightens his fingers on the sword, hating himself for the momentary hesitation. He lifts the sword and prepares for the death blow when he hears the shout. 

He should be more surprised that he recognizes the sound but years and experience have taught him that some things do not warrant the emotion. He recognizes the shout and he recognizes the kind of shout it is. He looks back at the Prince at his feet but the split second has passed and his decision is made. He's already running towards the shout, his blade in his hand as he drives it through two men. He locks his arm around the one on his knees and hauls him to his feet.

"Go!" he roars, "run!"

The other man looks at him uncomprehendingly and he roars again in wordless fury. It kills him to do so but he signals one of the guards. Five of them descend on them at once and he knows that his time in this battle is finished. The thought makes him snarl again but more of the man's weight is on him and once more his mind is made up. He shoves him at one of the men who hauls him up onto the horse. Another grabs his forearm and he hauls himself up on to the horse. The man digs his heels in and the horse bolts, galloping for all it's worth. 

The retreat leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

They gallop back to the safety of their camp and two men from the infirmary tent race forward and he jumps of the horse to help the other man down. He runs with them into the tent, helping them lay down the man. He rips off his helmet as the healers pull off the other man's. The marking on their armor are not known to the others, and he ignores their sharp inhales as their identities are revealed. 

"How is he?" he demands. 

"M'fine--" the man on the bed begins. 

"Be quiet!" he barks as the healers pull off the plating on his chest and reveal a deep wound high on his breast.

The healer looks at it and then up at him. 

"His Grace will live, Your Highness," the healer says, "the wound is not deep."

He runs a hand through his hair and nods, relieved. The retreat still makes him feel sick but the relief that churns alongside it makes him feel better. On the cot the Duke gives him a grin that he cuts off with a wince as the healer probes the wound. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head pressing his hand into the Duke's good shoulder. 

The Duke reaches up and clasps his hand. The healers don't acknowledge the show of comfort between the two men. There is a lot they do not acknowledge when it comes to the two of them. He turns from the tent with a curt nod in the direction of the healers and a silent command that they are not to let the Duke die. They acknowledge it with a bow befitting the future King. He turns from the tent as two men fall in line behind him. 

"There was a man by the boulders," he says, "near death. I want him finished off. When it is done, bring me his head."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which new wounds begin to fester

Prince Raleigh comes to with a groan.

He's burning, that much is clear. He can feel the sweat that seals him to the pallet underneath him. There's a fire nearby and though the heat is everywhere it burns especially across his chest, as if his very heart is rebelling against his body. He wants to put his hand on it, to claw it out and throw it away because the pain is nauseating but when he goes to lift his arm a hand clasps his wrist.

"Lay still," the voice swims through his ears, "that's an order."

He tries to smile but he finds the muscles on his face are not responding. All he can focus on is the red gold of his King's hair as he presses his calloused hands to his skin. Calloused because his King is a good man, a great man who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty. Never has been, not since they were kids racing through the woods and throwing their bodyguards off. His lip part and he tries not to moan at the sandpaper feeling in his throat. 

He doesn't want to worry his brother.

It fails as Yancy's hands leave his arm. He wants to snatch him back but at the next moment Yancy's besides him again. One hand slides underneath his head, cradles the base of his skull and gently eases his head up. Raleigh can't quite bite back his cry as his left side is engulfed in agony at the movement. Yancy murmurs something but keeps going, placing the rim of a glass against his bottom lip. He tips the herbed concoction and dribbles it into his mouth. It's a struggle to swallow but Raleigh forces himself to do it, taking the liquid into his mouth.

Yancy lowers his head back and his eyes roll to the side. There are two fires, one burning close to him and the second a bit farther off. There are shadows by the second. He tries to blink the haze from his eyes but he cannot. Still even in the haze he can see flashes of pale in the biggest of the shadows. His mind does not seem to be working through and before he can decipher what's going on his head's rolled back to the drape of fabric that makes up the tent. 

He spends most nights in Yancy's tent. But usually they don't end up with him feeling this bad. He tries to work his throat to ask what's wrong but Yancy's hand is back on his arm and he can't figure out why his shoulder still really really hurts.

"Just lay still, alright?" Yancy says, "just for a while," he looks over at the shadows as Raleigh floats in his own head. 

The shadows happen to have a name.

Or, at least one of them does. Over the prone form of the Prince she meets the gaze of the King before turning back to the irons heating in the fire. Prince Raleigh is dying. There is no kind way to say it so she holds her silence and lets the King speak instead and focuses on heating the iron. She does not let her thoughts linger on how they were separated during the battle or how she has failed in her duty to protect. That time will come. Instead she focuses on turning the iron in her hands and making sure it is hot. What they are attempting to do may kill the Prince faster, but doing nothing will kill him all the same. 

When the iron is glowing she pushes herself to her feet and comes over to the King. His dark eyes are on his brother's face as he presses a cloth to the Prince's brow. She knows he will do everything he can not to let him die. But there are limits to even what a King can do and there is no way to order a wound to heal. She gives him a moment before he turns his head and looks up at her. 

"They are ready," she says. 

He pales but looks resolved as he gives her a nod of acknowledgment and sets the cloth aside. She turns back to the fire as he carefully undoes the bandages that are packed on Raleigh's chest, revealing the gaping wound. Raleigh's eyes shut tightly and neither of them look at each other as they think of what just removing the bandages must feel like. Yancy looks around for more wine but there is none and he knows it's not going to make much of a difference. He fights not to think about how small Raleigh looks as he swings one leg over his brother. 

"Wassa--" Raleigh begins. 

"Just be quiet," Yancy says as he picks up the leather wrapped blade and eases it between Raleigh's lips. 

His brother opens his eyes and even in his state he seems to know that something bad is about to happen. Yancy sits back and rests his weigh on his thighs. He leans forward and grasps Raleigh's hands, folding them on his chest. Raleigh tries to tense and has to stop and even though Yancy's as gentle as he can be, a low sound escapes Raleigh's lips. Yancy puts his hands on top of Raleigh's folded ones and moves his other to Raleigh's shoulder, pressing down. 

He feels the heat as Mako steps forward to where he is. Some irrational big brother part of him wants to swat her away. To tell her she better not come near his little brother with those things. But the rational part wins out and he presses his body weight more onto Raleigh and nods in her direction. She acknowledges it and lowers herself to the bed next to him. He digs his fingers in as she maneuvers the orange metal to his chest. At the last moment she whispers an apology in her native tongue and presses the metal to his skin.

Raleigh screams. 

 

Yancy pushes down as hard as he can as Raleigh screams around the knife in his teeth, his body twisting to try and get away from the pain. He shifts his weight so that he's pinning him, his own hands spread against the wound and wet with Raleigh's blood.

To her credit Mako does not hesitate as she guides the hot iron against Raleigh's skin. Yancy fights not to tell her to stop as Raleigh twists and screams on the bed. His brother is so good at being strong, at pretending things that hurt do not. Hearing his voice break as he twists in Yancy's iron grip makes the older man fight not to break down. It's his job to protect Raleigh, it has been since the day his mother ushered him into the room and introduced the two of them. 

They wind up with their hands locked and Yancy does not care if Raleigh breaks every finger in his. He's got his weight on his forearms, still pressing him to the bed. But their fingers are locked in an iron grip. Raleigh's eyes lock on his and Yancy holds his gaze, forcing his own to be steady and unwavering. A fixed point. Raleigh clings to him. His voice has broken around the screams and now he just makes little sounds of agony as Mako guides the iron over the edges of the wound on his back. Yancy's seen men break under less, but Raleigh is not just any man. Finally Mako withdraws and looks up at him. 

"It's over," Yancy says. Raleigh looks at him uncomprehendingly, "it's over," Yancy repeats, "you did good," he adds, easing himself off Raleigh. 

Raleigh's eyes move with him as Yancy pulls the leather out of his mouth and wipes the spit that's escaped around it. Mako comes back over with some foul smelling paste that she begins to spread over the wound. If it hurts him Raleigh gives no sign, just stares blankly at Yancy. Yancy wipes a hand over his face and then kneels by Raleigh, grabbing his good hand. It's limp in his but he can feel the pulse slowing down from it's rapid pound. He helps Mako shift him so she can do the same on his back. Raleigh gasps brokenly and Yancy tightens his grip on him before they ease him back to laying down. 

"M'gonna die," Raleigh chokes out. 

"No," Yancy says glaring at him, "you are not going to die. That's an order from your King." 

Raleigh's lips twitch and Yancy blinks against the burning in his eyes. He looks up at Mako whose face is perfectly blank as she looks at the wound. Finally her eyes rise and she presses her lips together. Something inside Yancy loosens because she looks unsure. That's a hell of a lot better than how she looked when they first put Raleigh on the pallet. Raleigh's eyes droop and he presses his hand to his forehead, pushing back his hair. 

"Get some sleep," he says.

"S'that--"

"Yes," Yancy says, "it's an order."

Raleigh makes a sound in the back of his throat and closes his eyes, letting himself drift off. Yancy pushes himself to his feet and jerks his head for Mako to follow. They walk over to the opposite corner of the tent. Yancy turns to the bowl of water and begins to wash his hands, making sure to move slowly and not give in to the desperate need to get the blood off his hands as fast as humanly possible. Mako waits beside him, skirting the edges of the shadows. Yancy almost wants to pull her forward, to ensure she does not vanish.

"Who did this to him?" he questions. 

"The Prince, Your Majesty," she says. 

Yancy's hands still in the bowl. Of course the other prince would be the one to wound Raleigh like that. To cut off his helmet and leave him for someone else to finish off. His lip pulls back as he fights the urge to slam the bowl to the ground, ride to the enemy camp and tech the little shit a lesson about how one fights with honor. Not that their enemies have much of that to begin with. Instead he finishes washing off his hands and takes his time drying them, gathering his thoughts as he looks at his clean skin. 

He wants to order Mako to ride into camp and cut the Prince into tiny little pieces and then make his father eat them. He wants Herc to know the agony of watching someone you love slip closer and closer to death. But he knows these are the thoughts of a furious brother, not of a King with more than one man to think about. When he looks up he's surprised at the anger on Mako's face. She wants to do the same. Wants to cause the same pain he wants to. He exhales and looks back at Raleigh whose eyelids tighten and smooth as the fevered dreams take hold of him. 

"You are not to go with the men tomorrow," he says to her, "stay and guard my brother."

"But--" Mako begins. Yancy locks his eyes with her and she shifts her weigh uncomfortably before bowing, "as you command," she says. 

He nods and wishes he could command something useful for once.

* * *

"What do you mean 'he's not there?!'" Chuck bellows at the two men.

They trade a look before one speaks. 

"We combed the rocks," he says, "all we found was this," he adds extending a helmet.

Chuck grabs the helmet. It's dented, the face plate dangling off it's hinges. The chin straps are cut away, edged in dry blood where his blade nicked the skin. His fingers tighten on the helmet as he looks at it, fury building deep in his gut. So Prince Raleigh is still alive. Probably not, not unless King Yancy as a secret weapon or something. But Chuck's got no proof he's actually dead and that makes him growl low in his throat and his fingers tighten on the helmet in a crushing grip.

"Was there blood?" he questions. 

"Yes, Your Highness," one says. 

"Good," Chuck growls. 

Outside he hears a commotion and swears, striding forward. He's already taken off his armor but his sword never leaves his side anyway. He steps out into the night at the same moment the horses come running in. Chuck fights not to roll his eyes at the billow of his father's cloak as King Hercules rides into the camp. He settles for gritting his teeth and walking towards the medical tent where Herc is undoubtedly headed. 

"His Majesty, the King!" someone announces and Chuck cannot stop his eye roll.

The Duke is sitting up on the bed, his shirt in his hand. Bandages are wound around his chest but he hasn't even bled through. He pushes himself up and bows to the King. There's worry written all over Herc's face and for a sick moment Chuck feels the old seeds of jealousy beat in his heart. Emotion has always come easy to Herc where Duke Max is involved, easy in a way that has never come where his own son is involved. Chuck feels jealous but imagines it would be worse if the same did not hold true for him. 

"His Grace will live," the healer says, "thanks to His Highness."

Herc's gaze swings over to Chuck and as always Chuck feels himself draw up. At this point it is a reflex and by far it is Chuck's most hated one. He does not want to straighten in the presence of his father, as though he's the young boy begging for recognition he will never get. But he is first and foremost a loyal subject and Herc is first and foremost his King. He bows easily and gets the same acknowledgement, but even that feels forced. 

"That is good news," Herc says. 

"That is not all the news," Chuck says, "Prince Raleigh was wounded," he says holding out the helmet. 

Herc examines it quietly for a moment then looks up at Chuck.

"But not dead?" he questions. 

"No," Chuck says and tastes bitter in his mouth as Herc's features close off. 

"The fault is mine, Your Majesty," Max says adjusting his tunic, "I owe the Prince my life."

Herc looks at Max and then at Chuck and Chuck is strongly reminded of when they were boys. Just as when they were boys, Herc looks from one to the other before his gaze settles on Max and he nods his head. Chuck swallows back his own bitterness and looks at the spot just over Her's right shoulder. He's long since learned not to try and make eye contact,to try and draw Herc's gaze to him. When Herc's eyes move towards him he meets his gaze steadily. Anger is his shield in moments like these, moments that are far too frequent for his liking. 

"You owe him your arm at least," Herc says.

"Both my hands are his to do with what he wishes," Max replies without missing a beat, holding up his hands as though they're a present for Chuck. 

Herc grunts and nods to them both, turning and making his way out of the tent. 

Max immediately claps Chuck on the back and then drops his hands. 

"Sorry, unless that's what you command me to do with your hands," he says holding them up. 

"Keep your hands," Chuck says rolling his eyes, "I don't take gifts that are that dirty." 

Max gives an exaggerated gasp of offense and Chuck jerks his head towards his boots in a silent command. 

As his friend goes for them Chuck looks at the other beds. The men that are in them all seem to be at some level of peace and for that Chuck is glad. The men are good fighters, loyal fighters and Chuck wishes them all the peace in the world. It is difficult, sometimes, to separate Herc the King from Herc the father. As a man Herc is only good at one of those things and his failure at the first is difficult for Chuck to swallow sometimes. 

But Chuck has never let the difficulty of something deter him. 

Herc is first and foremost a King and Chuck is first and foremost a Prince. His duty is to be a loyal subject. To be the example for the rest of them. In some ways there is a victory in it, in being a better son that Herc is a father. Chuck enjoys his victories, especially the ones that are the hardest won. At least there is a sure victory in this, unlike what happened with Prince Raleigh on the rocks. Chuck tightens his fist on the hilt of his blade. 

He hopes the other Prince is dead. 

He looks over at Max who buckles his sword around his waist and decides that he hopes he died quickly. He's feeling rather charitable. When Max is unaware he is being watched his own mask slips. He looks like the King in these moments--or rather, he looks as Chuck believes that the King looked before he buried his wife. It takes him longer to put his own mask back up. There's something innocent about that, something that Chuck wishes to protect. Something Chuck knows he's lost long ago.

"Can we go get some food?" Max drawls, pulling Chuck out of his thoughts, "I'm starved."

Chuck nods and they depart the tent together. 


End file.
